Tone Deaf
by Uisukiiinyoursleep
Summary: Syndicates are at a head, and a conspiracy is underway in the Red Dragon Syndicate. The fragile balance between life and death, enemies and partners, are put to the test. Where do you run when you’re surrounded?


**Tone Deaf**

**By: **Uisukii^in^your^sleep

**Email me at: **zakyra_xx@hotmail.com

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Cowboy Bebop.

**A/N:** This is my first fic- so flame away…but try to make it constructive. I wrote this on a whim and I haven't really figured out the plot @_-…so far, it's a prelude to an alternate CB. Yep~ Eh…I got the idea for this while watching an old Bruce Lee movie, but mostly, this chapter is inspired by Scarface…even though I haven't seen the movie. My friend quoted a bunch of lines, and they kind've stuck with me. Don't get confused by the beginning (or end)-it'll link in to the second chapter. 

**Summary:** Syndicates are at a head, and a conspiracy is underway in the Red Dragon Syndicate. The fragile balance between life and death, enemies and partners, are put to the test. Where do you run when you're surrounded?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You Make Me Cool

_What can I tell you, this guy you see _

_What can I tell you, this guy you see_

_I can't help feeling, so cool hip and so free_

_I don't believe in getting hooked on love, no not me_

_You can't persuade me, to play your game_

_You turn your nose up, whenever I'm acting the same_

_The way I move is oh so smooth, I'm cool_

_I know you want to hold me, Cool Kat._

           Half lies and truths circulated the crime world of the best Syndicates, specifically among those members famous for their integrity. Men after men turned in their comrades, trading those who had shown to them a shred of trust, to their Syndicate's rivalries; for drugs, for money, more often simply for a single night of lust with dangerous women who sold their beauty as their ultimate act of loyalty to their Syndicate, only to end in the ultimate act of betrayal for another. On several occasions the deals would fall through, whether on the whim of the receiver or because luck would have it as not a good day for that particular official to die.

         One of these officials walked idly down a bustling street in New Chicago, both hands in the pockets of his blue slacks and a burning cigarette at his lips. His manner was laid-back, and his gaze one of casual boredom as he scanned the shops on either side. He was over half an hour early, but he figured he could kill the time with a little gambling or a little spying. Or both.

         "Spike Spiegel." 

           He faced the man who addressed him and nodded in acknowledgement as a gun was discreetly slipped into his hand. He holstered it in one simple movement: neither men had slowed down in the exchange. Spike Spiegel, high ranking member of the Red Dragon syndicate, whistled nonchalantly and turned down another street. 

         A  blonde in a black suit hustled past him in a hurry. Spike stopped walking; a still figure in a wave of shiny cars, stiff suits and black skirts, and surveyed his surroundings. New Chicago was a classy place, a tourist spot for the rich and famous, but mostly the center of politics and business. It was a city of cool blondes and straight-faced businessmen with briefcases, all in a hurry for their destination. A coffee shop every square foot, and a nightclub on the streets you avoided. Jazzy, it could be called. At night, a little blues, but behind the professional exterior was a shady city with the highest rate of disappearances on Mars. The serious men and women would at night transform into drug dealers, whores, and rich pimps with posh brothels, and the unfortunate innocent who wandered into these circles would be lucky if they left it with the same virgin intelligence with which they'd entered it. But not the city. The hospitality that New Chicago provided was pumping lead into the naïve bodies of visitors. Drowned, poisoned, strangled, shot, or run over, it was all the same. Murder.

         Removing his blue jacket, the lanky man, who was a head taller than everyone else, regarded the high skyscrapers and wondered how many hits had been carried out in each one. Spike smirked, holding a fistful of his jacket and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder; this was his kind of town.

         "Hey asshole start moving or get out of the way!"

         Running a hand through his mossy green hair, Spike gave the offended suit a lopsided grin and went on his way. He continued wearing the grin as he noticed several blondes pause in their shuffle and pretend not to stare, blushing and panting nonetheless. He had that affect on women. 

         And just as Spike recognized this the air filled with the sound of gunshots, a lot of cursing, and screaming women. Spike looked to the direction of all the commotion, it was a little ways up ahead…he squinted, reading the sign: 'The Gold Loot'. Ah. Casino Avenue. His gambler instincts must've led him astray to this route.

         People were streaming out of the magnificent cul-de-sac entrance, women stumbling over each other, screaming and not knowing where to go. Not the best site to grab a date-but as long as he was being literal…. 

         Jogging up to the entrance and planting himself in the middle, Spike Spiegel tossed his cigarette to the side and drawled loudly, "Right here ladies, a humble man to your disposal." And caught the waists of several fleeing blondes. 

         "Let go!"

         "Help!"

         And out they squirmed out of his grasp. Damn… Maybe the next one.

         Spike caught another one and looked down, "Hey there." She giggled- and then bullets started raining on them- she squealed and scurried off. He sighed. Bodies were pushing out of the establishment as more bullets whizzed past-an explosion-and then more bullets, but he was oblivious to it. Whoever was pulling a Tony Montana had hell to pay: finally- a window of opportunity- ruined. His planned night with three blondes? Shot to hell.

         A shrill, piercing scream cut through all the noise, and Spike, out of curiosity, pushed and shoved aside several horrified-looking bystanders and made his way inside. The red carpeting that ran outside wound its way up to a platform- behind it a crumbling wall, the handiwork of an offensive hand grenade- and on it was a small Hispanic man toting a semi-automatic and a fistful of blonde hair. Spike cocked an eyebrow at the sight, never faltering in his steps as a solitary hand traveled to the leather straps that holstered the Israeli Jericho 941 against his ribcage. 

         "Out motherfucker! You fuckin' motherfucker, I see you! You too motherfucker!" The dark little Hispanic man shot randomly into the air, but it did nothing to help rid the building of its occupants quicker-where the hell did all these people come from anyway? -and several little brawls broke out among the men, who in their act of fleeing had tripped or knocked into each other. A few women, Spike noticed, were involved as well, and there was some tearing of clothes-but he couldn't let himself get distracted just then. 

         Spike had managed to shoulder his way to the platform just in time to hear the man shout, "Say 'ello to my little fren'!" And then shoot down several security guards who had avoided getting trampled on. Who the fuck was this character? Tony Montana continued spewing off a lot of familiar lines, ignorant of the tall lanky man who jumped on a big man taking flight, knocking him to the ground in the process, and propelled himself off and onto the platform that withstood the antics of the gung-ho celebrity. 

         "Who the fuck are you!" Shrieked Tony as he let go of the blonde hair belonging to a tiny young woman, shoving her head in the process so that she squeaked and fell over.

         Spike ignored the fact that the semi was now pointed at him and took a step closer, letting his blue jacket drop to the floor as he pulled out the Jericho and simultaneously dove for the floor, rolling several times as he evaded a hail of bullets and then tumbled into an upright position- gun cocked and aimed at Tony, who looked like a man who'd had all his buttons pushed.

         "My name is Tony Montana! You fuck with me-"

         "You're fuckin' with the best." Spike finished calmly, eyeing the little Hispanic in restrained amusement. 

         To his credit, the sweaty little Cuban looked impressed. "All I have in this world is my balls-"

         "-And my word, and I don't break 'em for no one." 

         Tony wore an expression of pure astonishment, the grip on the semi wavering. Spike couldn't resist, "I want what's coming to me."

         Licking his suddenly dry lips, Tony swallowed hard before answering, "What's coming to you, man?"

         Spike took another step forward, "The world, chico, and everything in it." Apparently, that was the cue for Tony Montana to shoot, which he took up right away as he started firing in Spike's general direction, to which Spike ducked and executed a floor sweeping kick on the ground. Tony fell forward and both men stumbled off the platform, bullets spraying in every direction and hitting random targets. Grabbing the man by his collar, Spike backhanded the Cuban's face and then took several steps back, bumping into a fur coat, as he allowed his opponent to gather his bearings.

         Tony, who was wearing a rumpled tie-less black suit, pushed himself off the ground and smoothed down his clothes. He bent down, reaching for the semi, and stood up to his full height of 5'8, his free hand trailing to his collar and undoing the button. The large room, packed with tall plants, pillars, statuettes, and reception desks, suddenly went very quiet. Tony eyed the space around them, finding that a crowd had gathered around them in morbid curiosity. Rubbing his jaw and spitting out a mixture of blood and saliva, Tony regarded Spike; the man was freakin' _fast_. He moved with the grace of a tomcat and the speed of…well, fuckin' Speedy Gonzalez. A combination of cat and mouse. But cat eats mouse.  Well, he'd be fucked if _he _was gonna play the part of the rat.

           "Okay _pendejo_ jou ask for the bes' an' dis what jou get okay?" Tony lifted the semi so that the barrel faced the strange man with the poofy green hair. Spike smiled, although it was more of a grimace, and pointed his Jericho at the Cuban. 

         He had no intention of firing.

           "Who shoots first?" 

         Tony tilted the semi away from Spike, "Me motherfucker!" And shot into the crowd. All around them, people started panicking- streaming, stampeding, and tripping past them, and Spike strained his neck as he was pushed about in search of the little Cuban, who easily blended into the crowd. He lowered the Jericho and started to shoulder his way to the general direction in which Tony had disappeared. A distinct rustle made him turn around amid the loud noise, and he was greeted by the slamming of a semi-automatic against his skull. 

         "_Ja! _How'd jou like that, eh? Jou fuckin' _maricon! _Ja!_" Spike had been knocked off his feet by the impact, landing squarely on his back and gasping sharply as his breath was momentarily taken aback. A sharp kick met his side and Spike doubled over in surprise as several more met the first. "_Ja? Ja? _ How jou like that!" Tony's foot slammed down into his ribcage as he continued spouting off lines, and Spike rolled his eyes, he was getting tired of this._

         As the Cuban's foot reeled backwards and swiftly lurched forward, Spike caught his ankle and flipped him over, jumping to his feet just as Tony regained his footing. Not wasting time, Spike gave the Cuban a fast jab to the jaw, sending the Cuban stumbling, and then executed a perfect roundhouse kick followed by a lightning fast palm strike to the chin. Tony swayed in his place for half a millisecond before falling neatly backwards like a load of bricks.

         The commotion in the room was silenced with the loud thud that followed Tony's descent; bodies littered the ground and the wailing sirens of police patrol cars rang from outside with flashing blue and red lights. Four security guards hesitantly strung their way through the masses until they reached the spot of the fallen gunman. Spike was picking up the Jericho that had been flung a few yards away.

         "He's fucking crazy!"

         "We didn't think he'd do it." One of the security guards was saying.

         Spike quirked an eyebrow as he re-holstered the gun, "You know him?"

         "Yeah," The pale-haired, freckled security guard answered reluctantly as he eyed the unconscious Cuban, "Montaca. He works for the Casino. Clerk at the reception desk."

         "There was a lot of talk and bull about how he was sick of working under someone, that sooner or later he was gonna leave this joint, but not without a bang." Piped in the second guard, a painfully skinny man with shoes two sizes too big, and large hands. 

         "I guess it wasn't really bull." Murmured the first guard as an afterthought. Spike nodded once at that.

         A man in the crowd shouted, "The cops are coming in!" The room broke out in loud murmuring and there was a general movement towards the exit, but many sauntered down the large foyer and went back to their slots.

         Spike moved over to the platform and retrieved his jacket, the security guards trailing behind out of sheer simplicity. 

         "Is there a back way?" Spike asked as he shrugged back into his blue jacket suit.

         "Yeah, if you go down by the slots and to the bar, down that way." Freckles hooked a thumb in that direction. Spike nodded and moved to head that way- when, out of curiosity- he paused and looked back at the four guards, who continued to stand awkwardly in the place he had left them.

         "What's his first name?" Spike asked, jerking his head at Tony Montana.

         "Oh, Montaca? Yeah, his name's Tony. Crazy bastard." 

         Spike nodded, as if in confirmation of the answer, turned around, and gave a short wave of his hand as he walked off with a smirk. _Tony Montaca_- close enough.

           He took a deep breath of the fresh city air as he stepped out into the back alleyway and shook his head in mild amusement. Squinting- even in the hidden alleyway- from the sunny afternoon, he began walking at a leisurely pace. Spike looked down and rolled up his sleeve, giving his wristwatch a brief glance before doing a double take- damnitt! He was half an hour late. Syndicate men aren't known for their infinite patience- or Vicious for that matter. Cursing under his breath, Spike broke into a brisk run.

_Just leave me drinkin', in this bar tonight_

_I know you want me, to make you, make you feel right_

_But all you do is hang your head so low_

_I know you really want me, to go._


End file.
